


a brief, but patient illness

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort Exchange 2020, Jaskier takes care of both Yennefer And Geralt, Multi, Sickfic, Swearing, They all have two hands and are standing in a circle, in a surprising turn of events Jaskier has the braincell, metaphorically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Yennefer and Geralt are terrible patients. Jaskier takes care of them anyway.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 31
Kudos: 253
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	a brief, but patient illness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coaldustcanary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/gifts).



> Title from 'Summer Obsequies' by Emily Dickinson.

“Have you- have you never had a cold before?” Jaskier knows that his incredulous and vaguely amused tone is entirely inappropriate for the situation. He doesn’t need Yennefer’s pointed glare or Geralt’s annoyed grunt to tell him that. Still, though. It’s pretty damn funny that- after years of being the puny human of the group, spitting and swearing as he falls into muddy puddles and trips over roots- that he’s the only one who hasn’t been laid low by the cursed ‘flu.

Of course, something like this would never happen normally. No, the usual state of affairs is that he, Jaskier, drinks some tainted water, or gets too close to a sneezing child, or gets drenched in an unexpected downpour and then spends the next few days incoherent (and not in the fun way) while Yennefer and Geralt look on in bemusement at his human frailties and dose him with foul tasting medicines at regular intervals.

The fact that he’s the only one of their trio _not_ in danger of getting ill is- well, it’s pretty funny, is what it is. Whoever knew that there were maladies that only affected beings of magic? Not him, that’s for certain, and he suspects that the majority of the magical community is similarly in the dark. It’s only because Yennefer’s ‘friend’ Istredd was the one to actually uncover that cursed artefact at one of his digs that any of the three of them know at all.

He rather suspects that neither Geralt nor Yennefer are in the right frame of mind to appreciate the irony, though. Especially not since Geralt, lips pursed and looking as though he wants to kill Jaskier, bends over and spends a good five minutes coughing.

“I’m not sick,” Geralt says once he’s finished hacking his lungs out, his low voice even lower and raspier than usual.

“Sure you’re not,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes and shooting Yennefer an exasperated look. It’s nice to have someone to do that with, though there’s an equal chance that she’ll just smirk back and gang up on him with Geralt. “And I guess that the coughing is just for fun?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and squeezes his lips shut, looking determined not to let another cough pass through his lips. Which… is definitely not what Jaskier was going for but is just bloody typical.

“Right,” Jaskier says. “And the fact that you’ve been pale and shaky since this morning doesn’t have anything to do with the magical ‘flu going around? No? It is just some sort of Witcher-y thing that I haven’t heard of yet?”

“It’s not,” Yennefer says, coming to stand by him so that they present a united front. She studies Geralt for a moment, then turns to face Jaskier.

“I have a house, in the Redanian countryside,” she says.

“By ‘have a house’,” Jaskier says. “Do you mean that some arsehole lord has woken up with a conveniently estate-shaped hole in his memory?”

Yennefer smirks back at him and abruptly Jaskier remembers why, exactly, he likes her. She’s just his kind of bitch. Well, that and her amazing tits.

Since the three of them had started their little _arrangement_ , Jaskier had been aggrieved to find that he and Yennefer actually have a _lot_ in common. He’d thought that they’d just content themselves with sharing Geralt, exchange a few pointed barbs (which actually, he’d been looking forward to and preparing for), and take care to avoid each other as much as possible. Well, there have certainly been barbs and banter and all manner of wordplay, but there have also long evenings, drinking subpar wine and gossiping about their various mutual acquaintances, of which there are many. Unsurprising, once he thinks about it, as they both move in the same courtly circles.

His plan of avoidance faltered, flopped, and ultimately failed faced with such a temptation. And if their interactions steadily became more intimate? Well, he’s always been a fervent devotee of beauty in all things, and he can’t deny that the sight of Geralt, panting and pinned beneath Yennefer’s body, is a thing of beauty indeed. And what kind of hedonist would he be if he didn’t take the opportunity to join that living art?

Plus, that confused face that Geralt makes whenever they team up against him is _adorable._

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says. “Have I told you how amazing you are yet?”

“Not today,” Yennefer says. “But I’ll forgive it.”

“You’re not listening,” Geralt says. “I don’t need-”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier says, flapping his hands at the man. “You’re a big, scary Witcher who’s able to continue through any injury or illness. You don’t need anyone or anything; we’ve heard it all before. Haven’t you considered though, that we might want to take care of you?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, ducking his head down. He doesn’t blush, but Jaskier is pretty certain that’s due to some sort of innate Witcher thing because he always gets tongue tied and sullen whenever he or Yennefer make any indication at all that they think of him as more than someone to fuck. Jaskier is certain that given enough time, effort, and repetition they’ll train that out of him. And what better place to start with than here?

“Don’t you ‘hmm’ me,” Jaskier says, wagging his finger. “I-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts. “I can take care of myself.”

And then he pushes past the both of them and storms out the door.

“Wonderfully done, bard,” Yennefer says. “Perfect. I can see why your skills of persuasion are renown across the Continent.”

“You try dealing with Geralt in this state!” Jaskier says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “He’s the stubbornest fucking man that I know, at least when it comes to taking care of himself! Anyway, you weren’t exactly a lot of help back there!”

“What did you want me to do? Knock him out and drag him through a portal?”

“Yes! No! I mean- He’d probably forgive us eventually, right?”

Yennefer arches one perfect brow. “Eventually,” she says. “But then, some of us have longer to wait out his sulking than others.”

“Haha, is that another jab about my age?” Jaskier says. “I’ll have you know that I mature like, like- a fine wine!”

“More like a particularly potent cheese,” Yennefer says, but her heart isn’t in it. Neither of their hearts are, honestly. Jaskier shoots the door an anxious look.

“What’s the bet that Geralt’s run off to sublimate his feelings by fulfilling that drowner contract that we all agreed was a huge waste of time?” he says.

“No bet,” Yennefer says. “That’ll be exactly what he’s doing.”

#

They find him collapsed by a stream, silver sword in hand and dead drowners littering the ground. He doesn’t look injured, which is impressive, but then again Geralt’s killed so many drowners in his time that he could probably decapitate them in his sleep.

Yennefer kneels beside the Witcher, heedless of the mud staining her fine dress, and touches Geralt’s forehead, while Jaskier hovers ineffectually above them both. He’s good at many, many, things, not all of them linked to his various escapades (though the climbing skills have been surprisingly useful), but now? Here? There’s nothing that he can do that Yennefer can’t, and probably with more style to boot.

“He’s burning up,” she says to Jaskier. She glares down at the unrepentant Witcher, who’s glaring back up at her with bleary eyes. “Still think that you don’t need our help?”

“Fuck,” Geralt says. He tries to struggle to his feet, only managing to rise a few inches before he blanches and sinks back down to the ground. Nonetheless, he continues, “I don’t need coddling-”

Jaskier snorts. “Sorry to tell you this, but you definitely lost not-being-coddled privileges when you, I don’t know, _collapsed_. Alone, apart from Roach. What would you have done if we hadn’t followed you? Just- stayed here until something bigger and nastier came to investigate the smell?”

“You would have died,” Yennefer says, flatly. “Jaskier. I need you to go and get Roach while I try and stabilise our dear Witcher. Make sure that all of Geralt’s gear is present, though if you happen to leave his clothes behind-”

“It’s a sacrifice we’re both willing to make,” Jaskier says. “Though couldn’t you just- lure her over here with an illusion of an apple or something? Save this poor bard a trip?”

Despite his words, he’s already scrambling to find Roach, pleased that he has something to do. Something useful. Even if it is convincing the most ill-tempered horse that he’s ever known through a portal; something that she, along with Geralt, is very much opposed to. And yes, going through one of them makes you feel like you’ve been on a week-long bender, with nothing but a merciful punch as a hangover cure. But they also mean that weeks or even months of travel time are cut down to mere seconds. Jaskier knows that as a bard, he should be a lover of the countryside, of the fresh, open, air, of the beauty of the changing seasons. But frankly he got tired of that years ago; anything that speeds his journey to a good tavern with a warm fire and a nice bed is worth almost any price.

Roach, once properly approached with soothing words, a sweet apple, and years’ worth of experience in not getting bitten, is easy enough to convince. She follows him docilely, still laden with most of Geralt’s gear, which is a godsend really because Jaskier doesn’t really have the time to return to the inn. Geralt doesn’t have time for him to return to the inn.

Geralt is standing by the time he gets back; though standing might be a bit of an over exaggeration as he’s leaning heavily against Yennefer, face pale. Jaskier wraps Roach’s reins around his wrist and hurries over to Geralt’s other side, taking some of the weight off Yennefer. The fact that the Witcher doesn’t complain speaks volumes.

“Good, you’re back. We can get going. I’m going to open a portal and we are all going to walk through as quickly as possible. I don’t want to hold it open for too long.”

Her hands are already moving as she speaks, a portal forming in front of her. Together, the three of them manage to stumble through it, Roach following obediently behind them. She must be worried about Geralt. It takes less than a second, and then they are through, breathing in the noticeably cooler Redanian air. It’s quiet; the only sound distant birdsong echoing through the carefully cultivated gardens in which they’re standing, the air redolent with the scent of jasmine and lavender. The house itself is surprisingly modest, standing twenty yards or so in front of them. It’s only three stories high and has wide, oaken doors that are open in welcome. Ivy and scarlet roses are climb the pale stone walls of the house, their petals forming a silken carpet. 

“Well,” Jaskier says. “This is a lot more tasteful than I was expecting-”

But then he stops because Geralt collapses, wheezing, onto the ground. He’s a dead weight, and Jaskier grunts as he struggles to pull him back up while staying on his own feet.

“Fuck!” Jaskier says, trying to keep Geralt upright. It’s a losing battle, and he ends up easing Geralt down, cradling his head so that he doesn’t bang it against the gravelled path. “Yennefer,” he says. “Can you give me a hand here-” he starts, only to stop short. Because Yennefer is slumped on the ground beside Geralt, pale as a sheet, and with a thin trail of blood running down her nose.

“Yen,” Jaskier says, scrambling over to her limp form. “What happened?”

This close she looks awful; her hair is greasy, her skin sallow, and as Jaskier reaches out to her he can feel the heat radiating from her body. The blood is lurid against her skin. She moans and he gently shakes her, wincing at her sweat drenched clothes.

“What the fuck Yen,” he whispers. Because it’s evident that this is not a new thing. No illness, magical or not, could come on that quickly. But a Glamour- a Glamour could very easily conceal the physical signs. Leaning closer, he can smell the faintest hint of honey and peppermint, so different from her usual lilacs and gooseberries. A tincture of honey, peppermint, and milk of the poppy could do wonders for suppressing a cough. Fuck.

“You idiot, Yen,” Jaskier says to her unconscious form. To both their unconscious forms. “You couldn’t just admit that you were ill? And why would you think it would be a good thing to expend so much magic when your body clearly isn’t up to it!” There’s no reply. Not that he’s really expecting one.

Signing, he looks up at Roach, who’s chewing placidly at her halter and looking down at him with her large, brown, eyes.

“No,” he says to her. “I can’t believe I’m the voice of reason in this situation either.”

#

He starts by rummaging through Geralt’s saddlebags, hoping to find a potion- maybe Swallow?- that can give the Witcher enough energy to at least walk into the house under his own power. Jaskier knows that there’s no way he’s up to the task of carrying Geralt _and_ Yennefer into the house, not even if he enlists Roach’s help in transporting one of them, and damn the damage done to Yennefer’s no doubt extremely expensive floors. Well, he finds potions. A lot of potions, more potions than usual, and at least half of them Swallow. What he also finds is numerous empty glass vials.

What has Geralt been doing? Drugging himself and trying to ignore the symptoms? …no, actually that sounds exactly like Geralt, and never mind the toxicity that builds up over time and can overwhelm even the hardiest of Witchers. One of the bottles- one of the bottles has a shimmering blue residue left in the bottom; nothing like the comforting red of Swallow. He picks it up and sniffs it, gingerly. The he pulls back and wrinkles his nose. Aside from the potent smell of dwarven spirits, which form the base for the majority of Geralt’s potions, he thinks he can smell…wolfsbane. And something else, something that tickles his nose and makes him think of dark nights under a full moon, the wind tickling the nape of his neck, the taste of dirt heavy on his tongue-

He drops the vial.

“Fuck,” he says. Because he’s only smelt that once, and it was when Geralt had been giving him a brief pointer of potions _not_ to drink, ever. If he’s not mistaken (and he’s certain he’s not, because that smell is rather distinct) the potion that Geralt had drunk was Full Moon. Full Moon, which granted the drinker eight hours of energy. Full Moon, which is also _extremely fucking toxic_ even to Witchers, what the fuck Geralt. When he’d asked Geralt why he even had such a potion in his supplies, the Witcher had just shrugged at him and said that the benefits outweighed the risks. And that all he’d need to do was meditate for an hour to get rid of the toxins in his bloodstream. Hah! Looking at Geralt now, he doesn’t have it in him to sit up, never mind meditate.

“Oh, wonderful. Just perfect,” he says, kneeling by the Witcher and peering at his face, trying to ascertain whether or not he’s fatally poisoned himself yet. “What, you thought ‘I’m a manly Witcher, I can’t be seen relying on my friends! No, not even Yennefer, a powerful sorceress, or Jaskier, someone who’s actually had colds before and knows that the only way through them is rest and plenty of fluids and not taking an extremely dangerous stimulant and pretending that nothing is wrong. No! Let me just self-medicate-”

He keeps up his rant as he heaves Yennefer up and onto Roach. Her head flops limply against the mare’s side, and Jaskier throws an arm over her to keep her steady, and to keep her from falling off. Roach whinnies disapprovingly, but allows it, and Jaskier just about sags with relief.

“I know, girl,” he says, petting her nose with his free hand. “I’m going to find you all the apples after this. Drown you in sugar cubes! All the treats you can eat. Just help me get these idiots settled, and then I’ll find the stables for you- get you some nice oats, hmm?”

Roach huffs at him, turning around to nudge at his chest with her head. He’s- he’s going to take that as a show of support in him.

“You,” he says, pointing at Geralt’s unmoving form, “Stay there. I don’t want to come back to find that you’ve woken up and staggered out to, I don’t know, fight monsters or something the minute that my back is turned. I’ll be back for you.” Geralt doesn’t answer. Not that he was expecting him to, exactly, but it would have been nice. Still, Jaskier resolves not to take too long getting Yennefer set up inside. Just in case there are random monsters wandering outside.

And so, with a gentle click of his tongue, he and Roach- with Yennefer draped atop her- set off toward the house.

#

Well, at least this can be said for random Redanian noble- he has a wonderful taste in architecture. And he used to have beautiful wooden floors, before he and Roach smeared river mud and what might possibly be drowner shit all over them.

“It’s fine, Roach, we’ll be done in no time,” Jaskier says, as the two of them head back out the house. He had managed to find a bedroom not too far from the kitchens to deposit Yennefer in; no doubt it was a servant’s chamber, but there’s no way that he was going to get Roach up those stairs. The bed was made with sheets that didn’t look _too_ dusty, and there was a fire set in the grate, in any case, which is a bit surprising as the house is resoundingly empty. A good indication that there are some sort of magical servants or something tending to the house’s upkeep. Which is better than nothing, but still a pity, because he really could do with another set of hands to haul Geralt onto Roach’s back. As it is, he’d contented himself with stripping all the baggage off Roach to make room for the even heavier bit of baggage to come. To wit, one idiot Witcher. 

When they exit the house, Geralt is stumbling toward them. Because of course he is, he can’t ever _listen_ to Jaskier even when he’s feverish and has poison flowing through his veins. Jaskier immediately hurries forward to steady him. Roach, marvellous horse that she is, trots after him and presses against Geralt’s other side, lending him support.

“Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles, staring at him. His eyes struggle to lock on to Jaskier’s face, staring at somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear instead. There’s a tightness around his eyes that Jaskier knows through experience is the sign of an excruciating headache. “Where are we?”

“We’re at Yennefer’s house. Well, the house of someone who Yennefer has enchanted, to be more precise.”

Geralt blinks at him. He looks very confused and, to Jaskier’s eyes, very young despite him being decades older than the bard. His chest is heaving, and his pulse feels normal which, considering that Witchers have a pulse that is fourfold slower than that of normal humans, is an extremely bad sign.

“You’re safe,” he says. He keeps his voice low and soothing, trying not to cause him any more pain. “You’re safe, and I’m here with you. And so is Yennefer, though honestly Geralt, she’s as bad as you are sometimes.”

“Yen…?” Geralt murmurs.

“Yes, Yen. She fixed you up, brought us here-” Jaskier frowns. “Not that she should have, because apparently she’s ill as well and been hiding it. At least- I hope it’s just illness…” He gives a little shake, physically ejecting that depressing though from his mind. “No,” he says. “I’m certain that it’s just an illness. And you know, Istredd said that it really isn’t that bad; over in three days or so, he said!”

Geralt doesn’t really look like he’s listening, but Jaskier keeps chattering on, filling the air with comforting chatter. Not just for Geralt’s sake either. It’s making him feel a lot better as well.

#

The bed is barely large enough to fit both Geralt and Yennefer, but honestly if they’re not actively falling off it, Jaskier figures that that’s good enough. And it’ll be easier to take care of them if they’re both in the same place.

As soon as he hits the covers, Geralt curls himself around Yennefer, which is frankly adorable and Jaskier is going to bring that up as soon as both of them are better just to see Geralt not-blush at it. Yennefer sighs- a mere exhalation, but something that Jaskier is ecstatic to see- and relaxes into the Witcher’s embrace. He might not bring this one up, later. Yennefer is, and he says this with all love, infinitely more terrifying than Geralt.

Jaskier hovers for a moment, unsure of what to do first. Should he explore the house, figure out what supplies they’ve actually got around here? Check for food and medicine? Get Roach settled? Find some Golden Oriole and force it down Geralt’s throat before he dies? Actually- yes, the last one. Definitely the last one.

He kneels next to the pile of bags and starts digging through. He’s certain that he saw Golden Oriole before- yes! There it is. He takes it out, careful not to break it, and stares at the shimmering golden liquid.

“Well, Geralt said that you neutralise poisons,” he says. “So- fingers crossed.”

He perches on what little space there is by the side of the bed and tilts Geralt’s head up, supporting him with his knees. He doesn’t want him to choke on the potion. Geralt grumbles at the motion, but doesn’t resist, which considering that even in his mostly unconscious state he could still probably take Jaskier out with ease, is a good thing.

“Come on,” Jaskier says, uncapping the vial and coaxing Geralt’s mouth open. “Open up for me, there’s a good Witcher.” Geralt complies, and Jaskier tamps down on the thrill that comes from seeing _his_ Witcher listen to him. Now is definitely not the time.

Geralt swallows the potion easily enough, considering it’s a Witcher potion and therefore tastes foul. As soon as Jaskier eases him back down he goes back to cuddling Yennefer. Something that does terrible, terrible things to Jaskier’s heart, watching the two of them intertwined together. He reaches out and brushes a tender hand across their huddled forms, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to each if their brows in turn. Geralt sighs as he does so, reaching out a free arm to pull him to bed with them.

“No,” Jaskier says to them, extricating himself. “Not yet. I have some other things I need to take care of first.”

Things like making them a bit more comfortable. There’s not a lot he can do- not without help- but he can at least slip their boots off their feet and light the fire in the grate. He also takes a blanket out from their packs and tucks it around them- it’s doesn’t add that much warmth, as blankets go, but at least they’ll be surrounded by the smell of something familiar. He hesitates for a moment then, feeling stupid, he takes off his doublet and lays it on top of the blanket. He doubts that it’ll do anything concrete but- it does assuage his fears, that he’s abandoning him. And it feels like he’s there, watching over them. He can allow him this one indulgence; he’s a poet after all. Hopefully they won’t wake until he gets back; they both need sleep. And a lot of it.

“Just stay there for a moment,” he says to the two of them. “I’m going to get Roach settled and then I’ll be back.”

#

Roach is remarkably easy to settle; there’s a stable out behind the house next to a beautifully wide pasture, all emerald green grass spotted bright daisies.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” Jaskier says. “Yes, you’ll be fine here, won’t you Roach?”

He leads her into the stables and quickly divests her of her tack, hanging it up on a convenient nail. It’s dirty; splattered with mud and other unsavoury substances but cleaning it can wait for later. He has more important things to worry about.

“Not that you aren’t important, Roach,” he says, leading her to the pasture. “But I have faith that you can take care of yourself for a bit. Unlike others I could name.”

Roach nickers and gives him a fond- and powerful- head butt before moving on to a particularly tasty patch of clover.

“Was that approval? Yeah, I’m going to go ahead and take that as approval.”

#

The house, despite being incredibly empty, has a _very_ well stocked pantry.

“I have no idea how long I’ve got until these go bad,” Jaskier says, looking at a brace of- thankfully already plucked- pheasants. “But I am going to take advantage of this while I can.”

So saying, he takes the largest and sturdiest pot that he can find and places it in the fireplace. Luckily, there are already embers that can be coaxed into a proper fire with a few twigs, and before long he has a nice blaze going. “I wonder how long, exactly, Yennefer spent preparing the house,” he says. “And whether or not she did it by magic? Because I have to say, the image of her laying a fire of all things is pretty ludicrous.”

He grabs a bucket and starts out to the water pump that he spotted near the stables. “Of course,” he continues, huffing at the weight of a very full pail of water. “One could say the same about me.”

By the time he gets back to the kitchens, the fire has settled somewhat, and he feeds it with some of the split logs from the pile by the kitchen door. He isn’t afraid of running out of wood any time soon; the pile is almost as tall as he is.

“Maybe,” he says, tipping the water into the cooking pot, groaning as he sees it only half-fills it, and steeling himself for another long walk to the water pump. “Once he’s better, I can get Geralt to split some more logs for me. Oh, I’m sure that Yennefer has some sort of spell that would do it faster and more efficiently but I’m sure that she’ll agree with me that the view is worth the wait.”

Once he’s added the extra water- and kept a bit back for general washing purposes because he doesn’t know about them, but he’s going to want at least a sponge bath once he’s finished in the kitchen- he adds another few logs into the fire and starts to prepare the ingredients. He grabs all the fowl he can see- the brace of pheasants, a grouse, a couple of chickens- and then starts hacking them apart with a remarkably sharp cleaver. He tosses the pieces into the boiling pot; wings, breast, thighs, neck (though not head, he’s always been a bit squeamish about that sort of thing), liver, heart. He isn’t particularly refined in his approach, but he does at least make sure that the birds are properly gutted; he doesn’t want to take any chances when it comes to food poisoning.

By the time he’s finished, the fire’s died down a bit, and all he’s left with is a bed of gleaming embers. He pushes them together underneath the pot, and scatters ashes over them to stop the fire from flaring up.

“Good,” he says, leaning back and wiping the sweat from his face with his chemise. “That’s that then.”

The soup should be safe enough, bubbling over the fire all day. After a moment’s rest, he walks back over to the pantry, searching for something that’ll make the soup taste slightly more appetising than meat-water. He’s going to eat it, after all.

He finds carrots, sorrel, leaks, turnips, celery and a shit tonne of cabbage. And, venturing deeper into the well-provisioned room, he finds a small box which, upon opening, proves to contain a small bag of salt and various herbs. Perfect. He can see parsley and marjoram and a few precious peppercorns.

Gathering all the treasure up in his arms, he brings them over to the pot, making sure not to drop the herbs. He adds a good few pinches of salt, half the marjoram, and all of the peppercorns and parsley. Then he removes as much of the dirt from the vegetables as possible before dumping them in as well.

It’s not fine, fancy food but it’ll do. And it’s as much time as he’s willing to dedicate to it. Leaving the soup bubbling away, he picks up the half-full pail of water and goes to check on his family.

#

The room is quiet and warm and Geralt and Yennefer are still intertwined together on the bed. The fire is burning low in the grate, and Jaskier moves over to bank the embers. There isn’t any more wood in the room, but it’ll be easy enough to bring some more in from the kitchen.

“Jaskier.”

“Yen!” She’s struggling up from Geralt’s embrace, not very successfully. Jaskier grabs a relatively clean chemise from his pack- the stains and rips littering it were from falling in a bramble patch and not from the claws of some terrible monster- and the pail and moves over to help her. She still doesn’t look healthy- and that’s good, because it means that she isn’t stupid enough reapply the Glamour and pretend that she’s fine. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, perching on the very edge of the bed and reaching over to feel her forehead. It’s hot and clammy beneath his hand, and he frowns. He carefully tears a strip from the chemise and dips the rag into the pail, wringing out most of the water and then tries to tenderly lay it on Yennefer’s brow. She jerks away and glares daggers at him.

“Like shit,” she says. Her voice is low and hoarse and sounds painful.

“Yeah, well I’m not surprised,” Jaskier says. He keeps his own voice low; he can see the careful way that Yennefer is moving her head, squinting against the light. There’s water dripping onto his legs, but that doesn’t matter. He’s going to have to wash his clothes in any case. Maybe burn them, depending on how this whole thing turns out. “You’re pretty sick. And I’m no Triss Merigold, but I’m pretty sure that you’ve got the ‘flu.”

“I’m fine,” Yennefer rasps. She tries to sit up again, and Jaskier lets her struggle for a few seconds before sliding a couple of pillows behind her back. Earning himself a narrow-eyed glare in the process.

“See,” Jaskier says, trying to hand over the damp rag yet again and getting rebuffed. “I remember having this exact same conversation this morning with Geralt. And that was equally convincing. How does it feel to have the same emotional intelligence as a Witcher?”

Yennefer huffs at him, but doesn’t say anything back, which Jaskier takes as confirmation that he’s won this round.

“Now,” he says. “I’m going to bathe your brow with this water and then I am going to check on Geralt. After that I am going to go out and check on the soup that I made, and I am going to feed you both as much of the broth as you can feasibly drink. Then I’m going to get more wood in for the fire and make sure that this room at least is warm enough for you both, so you don’t even more sick-”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer’s voice cuts through his monologue and he abruptly realises that he’s hyperventilating. Slightly. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Sorry,” he says, angrily wiping the tears from his face. “I just- I hate it when you and Geralt do this, pretend that you’re fine when you’re _not._ You’re evidentially and unequivocally not! You collapsed! Both of you! And I understand that you don’t want to be seen as weak- Melitele knows that we humans are arseholes most of the time and will take any advantage. But-” he’s sniffling again, he knows he is, he just can’t stop it. “But why can’t you trust _me_? I won’t take advantage, I thought you knew that. And I want to take care of you. Both of you. Because this is something that I can do. I know that I haven’t always been the best of friends or lovers but I swear, Yen- all I want to do is make sure that you’re safe. And well. And yes, maybe you could muddle through this on your own, but you don’t have to. Because I’m here.”

He takes another breath, trying to master his emotions. They’re. not useful. Not now. Not when he has to take care of two stubborn idiots. _His_ stubborn idiots.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says again, and she’s reaching over to him. “I- We didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s fine,” Jaskier says. He hands over the rag, and Yennefer takes it from him. “I should just go, and-”

“No,” Geralt is staring up at both of them, one of his hands placed around Jaskier’s wrist. It’s trembling slightly, and it’s warm- far too warm. But his eyes are a clear, large and golden and steady. “Stay. You’re not- you’re not untrusted. You’re _Jaskier._ ”

“…oh,” Jaskier says. He looks over at Yennefer. “And you both-?”

“Yes, you moron,” Yennefer says. “Of course, I trust you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says again. “Then- will you let me take care of you? Both of you?”

The two of them, sorceress and Witcher, exchange a look. Yennefer rolls her eyes and gives the slightest of nods. Then Geralt turns back to face Jaskier.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes. And then he tugs on Jaskier’s wrist. It’s surprisingly strong for a man who collapsed mere hours ago and it sends him sprawling into the middle of the bed.

“Wha- Geralt!” he says. “I’m- I made soup- you- liquids! You need liquids, not-”

Geralt determinedly ignores him, and before Jaskier knows it he is trapped between them, Geralt curling around him, Yennefer curling her own hand around his free wrist and resting her head on top of his.

“You said you’d take care of us, bard,” Yennefer breathes into his hair. “So take care of us.”

“How am I supposed to take care of you if I’m trapped here!”

Neither of them replies. Because astonishingly they have both fallen back to sleep. Or are doing a remarkable job pretending that they have. Jaskier sighs. It’s not exactly pleasant, being trapped between two fever-warm bodies, with his boots still on and no doubt crushing his doublet. But- he can spend a bit more time here. Just a bit more.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my beta, ThebanSacredBand!
> 
> Dear coaldustcanary, I hope that you like this story! I had a blast writing it and was very much inspired by your wonderful prompts! Please also know that around the middle section when Jaskier is making chicken soup, I had a very clear moment of 'oh no' as I remembered that there aren't things such as running water or electric (or even gas!) stoves in fantasy medieval Poland...
> 
> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


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